Page 87 of The Secret Dinner

“But Miguel was so quiet, he kept to himself…”

“Your friend was going to betray you.”

“Liar!”

Umberto reached into his pocket and disdainfully tossed a cell phone into my lap. It was Miguel’s.

“He’s the one who took that photo of the plate and sent it to Kássio. He told him to post it on Instagram. Miguel was gathering evidence on the dinners, Dante. Just look at his photos. The password is zero-five-zero-three.”

An obvious one, his mother’s birthday. My heart racing, I opened the camera roll: There were dozens of photos taken from covert angles showing the front of the villa in Jardim Botânico, the decorated table, Hugo with his sous-chefs in the kitchen, even photos of me in a tuxedo welcoming guests.

“He’d printed the photos and was going to give them to the police. It was all in the briefcase he was carrying,” said Umberto, beaming with pride. “There’s more. Go to the last voice note.”

I scrolled wildly through the apps and pressed play on the most recent recording, titled CONFESSION. I heard his voice, followed by mine:

Dante, I was always against this whole thing … From the very beginning, you know I was against these dinners … You forced me into this!

Don’t be like that.

I’m just worried. You’re doing a lot more drugs. Dante, it’s getting out of control. Why do you keep doing these dinners? It’s not about the money anymore, is it?

What?

You like it, don’t you?

Fuck you, Miguel!

Sorry, I … I’m just confused, I feel like you guys forced me into this.

I dropped the phone onto the bed. My muscles were tense, but I felt weak. He betrayed me, I thought. He betrayed me, and without a drop of remorse. If that recording found its way into the cops’ hands, I was fucked, with no chance of defense. I stared at Umberto.

“Sorry to have to show you that, but you needed to understand. It’s time to move on, kid,” he said, flashing me the plastic grin of a TV presenter. “I’ll give you another day off, okay? But the next few are going to be busy. In three weeks we’re celebrating our hundredth dinner, on the twenty-first. It’s going to be a special night, with all the original guests from that first night in Copacabana.”

“Even Cecília?” I joked humorlessly.

“Well, almost all the guests,” he said with a chuckle. “Obviously I didn’t invite that tramp. Or the gay couple who caused all that trouble. But Soninha Klein, Kiki Dourado, and Congressman Ataíde have already RSVP’d.”

“Leave me out of this, Umberto. Please…”

“No can do, kiddo,” he said, getting up to grab the briefcase from the desk. “Also, I’ll need you to be there next Friday. Vladimir’s ordered something new. We’re going to serve seagull ‘veal.’”

GOOD MORNING, SLEEPING BEAUTY

1

My Molly-and-cocaine habit ramped up in time with the secret dinners. Things were just easier that way. The hours flew by, and all I had to do was ride the wave until I reached a state of sluggish lethargy, like my life was a movie filmed in slow motion, or total blackout. I spent most of the time high as a kite, fucking guys whose faces and names I wouldn’t remember and accepting anything and everything they had to offer me in the dives and fleshpots of Lapa where I always wound up. Whenever I dried out, the story my mom had told me rattled around in my head, finding grotesque connections to Miguel’s death, the grieving guy at the bar searching for his fiancée, and Piglet fucking Cora as she swung her yellow chainsaw in the air.

I woke in a panic before dawn on the Friday of Umberto’s special meal and ripped up the flyer of Ruth, which I’d stashed in my bedside table. I tried to go back to bed, but, too hopped up to sleep, I stayed up gluing the pieces onto a sheet of printer paper like a kid doing a school art project. The woman’s creased and tattered photo taunted me: Her smile radiated a joy I knew I’d played a part in destroying. I could picture her hanging from meat hooks as she was skillfully hacked to pieces, and it made me want to slit my wrists.

I did a quick bump before slipping on my tuxedo jacket to recite my little welcome spiel to Friday’s guests. For the main course, boneless “veal” chop stuffed with cashew farofa. It was out of control. I was out of control. Armed with the emotional distance only time can offer, I can say for sure that those next few days were central to how this all unraveled.

On Saturday morning, I woke up to the sun beating down on my face. I was lying under an awning a couple of blocks from home, my head resting against the front window of a pizzeria. My brain was mush, and all I remembered was taking part in an orgy in some apartment in Flamengo. I got invited on Grindr, so I went, though I didn’t know anyone there. The shame I felt was surpassed only by the panic of not having used a condom, though I couldn’t actually remember the actual sex. Life is like that: Before you can start to redeem yourself, you have to fall face down in shit and get a good whiff of death.

As I took my walk of shame, I decided I had no right to hold a grudge against Miguel. Taking pictures and recording our conversation hadn’t been betrayal. He was just trying to protect me, protect us. The Dante I’d become—a drugged-up little slut—had nothing to do with the Dante I wanted to be. I stepped into the shower, massaging my throbbing temples. Somewhere in that mess was a spark of common sense: I could no longer sit idly by, sinking deeper and deeper, obeying every order from Umberto, Vladimir, or whoever else. Fuck the secret dinners. Fuck the villa in Jardim Botânico. Fuck the money. Maybe it was too late, but I had to at least try. I had to close ranks and identify the enemy. That was the first step.

In the kitchen, still in their pajamas, Piglet and Cora were eating toast with raspberry jam and watching a morning celebrity talk show. Hugo was at the stove preparing an omelet with fresh herbs and barely glanced up as I passed him on my way to the fridge. After Miguel’s death, our relationship had deteriorated completely.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” said Piglet, planting a wet kiss on my cheek. “You’ve really been getting your fix, huh?”